


all i want

by alexcz



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Conversations, Ex-Boyfriends AU, Hesitant Flirting, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcz/pseuds/alexcz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have not seen John Egbert in nine years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. speak

**Author's Note:**

> i blame everything on lynn

It was a typical Friday night, and you had places to go, people to see, and things to do. You really only told yourself that to make yourself feel better about usually going to a shitty, hole-in-the-wall bar downtown to waste your time on Friday nights, but you'd made a routine of it so you might as well try to make it sound important. Being Dave Strider and all, of course the things you did were important. 

But tonight, you were going to shake it up a little. Since you were going to a different bar a few blocks and a couple right hand turns away. You liked to live on the edge. 

And here you were, on the aforementioned edge, of this curb looking at the door. The sign above it probably says some cliché club name in bright neon letters, and you don't particularly feel like caring about it. You just push the door open, and let the stifling, yet slightly sweet smell of shitty fog machine fog work it's magic. Despite the slight haze, you can't help but notice this is.. At least a few steps up the quality ladder in comparison to your usual joint, but you don't mind all that much. The music is a few notches below what you would deem a good volume, and the dollar store laser lights that sit on either side of the DJ booth are trying to kill you, but overall, it's nice. And fairly packed, too, a generous amount of people there, who all seem to be having a good enough time, if grinding like there's no tomorrow and making out with any mouth that is currently not talking about their shitty work experiences throughout the week to anyone that'll listen is considered a "good enough time". Their faces blend into the smoke easily, their smiles airy and giving an almost dream-like quality to the dance floor.

You didn't exactly come here to dance, unless offered you guess. But you really only came here to drink. You had plenty of booze at both your disposal and mature discretion at your place, and you aren't really an alcoholic, but there was something about Friday nights that screamed "Get off your fucking ass at least once this weekend to do something, anything, please, I don't even care what it is at this point," though that's mostly paraphrased. So here you were, at this bar. Surrounded by people. Doing actual things. 

You find a seat at the bar, near the far end since thats about all that was left, with a fading picture of some hockey team holding a tournament cup next to a picture of what you think is supposed to be Madonna, if not crudely framed. Your unfortunate seating means you have to wait about fifteen minutes before the bartender even realizes you're there. But you wave your hand indicatively and he hands over your whiskey with relative ease before moving away to other patrons. 

You wonder vaguely if you stand out in this place, having never really been here before. You realize a little late that you maybe should've called someone up before coming here and ending up looking like a total dumbass hunched over the bar cradling this glass of whiskey in your hand and probably looking like you aren't actually here to have a good time but instead came here to catch Jeopardy on the 10x10 TV in the corner across the bar since your cable went out at home and you _really_ wanted to know what royal family Nicholas II was the last ruling Czar of. But it's 10:37 and Jeopardy isn't even on at this time of night, so you think you'll settle for watching the fuzzy depictions of what's probably Seinfeld reruns. 

But your whiskey is good, and no one seems to pay you all too much mind, and the music thrums and bounds with the beat, and the blurry faces out on the dance floor are still smiling their airy smiles. Mindless noise of the fog machine behind you, mindless chatter, mindless laughtracks on Seinfeld, and then genuine laughter. It kind of makes you want to laugh along just for the sake of them laughing even though you have literally no affiliation with what they're laughing about. You take another sip of whiskey to finish your drink and idly think that their laugh is nice. 

You stare down at your empty glass for a few more moments, contemplating if you really want another one. You check the clock. 11:03. You lean forwards over the bar a little to try and catch the bartender's attention, but you notice that they're busy with another patron right now. They're chatting and obviously laughing about something, but you can't see much of the other person's face, a hand pressing into their cheek to prop their head up, thus blocking your view. You notice this is the source of the laugh you heard, and wave again. The bartender looks your way and you try to ignore the rising tension you feel in your chest for some reason, blaming it on the fog. Too much of that would drive anyone nuts (but it's barely been half an hour), and you're surprised to see that your waving has also caught the attention of the other patron as the bartender approaches you. You catch their glance for a moment, before you're asked what you want to drink. You take a deep breath and swallow to try and get your heart out of your throat. This was so fucking weird. You get another whiskey and try to see if that helps to wash it down. 

It does a little, and the bartender has since retreated back towards the other customers, though you can tell they're not talking to the same person anymore, despite not being able to see them specifically. There were still a few burly guys between you and them whose shoulders could block out the sun if they wanted to probably. It was serving in your favour as you fidget in your seat. Another sip. 

Now you're hunched over the bar a little more than you had been initially, and you can't help but feel a little silly, since you weren't even all that sure what exactly you were trying to get a look at. So why were your hopes doing the thing. 

You hope that they won't be looking your way when you lean forwards just that last little bit, and you are starting to strain your eyes a little to look at them from the corners while still looking like you were looking straight ahead. It probably wasn't all that believable in retrospect, but he wasn't looking. He was staring at the various liquors on display behind the counter, illuminated by something akin to a UV light that made the contents glow. At this angle, you could barely see his eyes, the frames of his glasses reflecting the light in the most inconvenient way possible. But you didn't really care. You were staring. His hair was black, but had a blue-ish shine to it in the dimness of the room. His skin was illuminated, for lack of a better word, but it looked natural enough to be akin to an aura, which you found strange. It was by no means a spotlight, but it may as well have been. His arms were folded on the counter, his back was hunched a little, but shoulders were still pushed back, a habit if you would, from all those piano lessons. At this point there wasn't even a doubt. John Egbert was sitting a few seats down from you at a bar. 

You take your eyes off of him and sit back in your seat properly, your eyebrows seated rather peculiarly high as you try to get that thought through your head. Another sip. You look around. This doesn't really seem like John's kind of place. But you suppose it doesn't seem like yours, either, yet here you are. 

You stand up. Your drink is half finished, so you pick it up and bring it with you. You're trying to be casual as you meander past the other seats, not paying attention to the burly guys with huge shoulders, and finding yourself focused on the empty seat to the left of the guy with the slightly wrinkled button-up who has crooked glasses and messy hair and his belt is kind of twisted at the back under where his shirt is tucked in and you find yourself sitting. Beside him, specifically. Sitting to the left of John Egbert. He's just finishing his drink, so you don't think he notices you right away, and you swirl the remnants of your drink with the hand that's currently not clutching at your knee, fingers curling into the fabric. You glance over. 

"..Y'know I never would've taken you for a guy in the bar scene," you start eloquently enough, and hope to god you spoke loud enough for him to hear you. 

He looks at you, the glare leaving his lenses as he turns away, and god you can see his eyes now, and he looks puzzled for a moment, before it morphs into confusion, and then disbelief and god why can you still read this so easily? He falters for a second, his mouth open to speak as he squints at you. "..Dave?"

You offer him a grin that you hope looks more sheepish than it does nervous, turning your gaze away to look down at your drink. "That's me," you answer, gesturing to yourself in a half-assed, roundabout way. "In the flesh, bones, and Old Navy jeans."

He lets out a short laugh that sounds more disbelieving than anything, and you catch him shaking his head a little from the corner of your eye. You tilt your head a little to look at him once again as he speaks up, a disbelieving grin spreading over his features, "What.. What are you _doing_ here?"

Your hand goes over your heart in mock hurt. "Oh, how you wound me," you begin with fake dramatics. Dramatics of the fake kind. "I'm simply here for the ambiance and lovely atmosphere and whiskey," you finish, at least honestly, gesturing now to your drink before you take another sip.

He shakes his head a little. "No, I just. That's not what I meant really, wow I guess that sounded kinda rude," he answers, but you wave him off, and he continues. "I mean, I guess I was just wondering since. Y'know. I haven't seen you around here. It's been forever!"

Okay. Okay, that's understandable. Nine years can constitute as forever. Yeah. Your hand goes to readjust your sunglasses on instinct. You think you see his fingers twitch a little around his glass. 

"Oh, right, well. It's a long story I guess. A long, arduous adventure that lead me to this location."

He doesn't look like he buys it, and you can't say you blame him, but it's probably not what he thinks. "Wow, sounds absolutely enthralling, Dave," he starts, attempting to nod in a sincere fashion and failing miserably. He looks at the clock. "But I've got time."

You let out a sigh, slumping a little further into your seat. You notice him tap at the glass a little, and you think he's legitimately wondering if you don't want to tell him. You shrug this thought off, and decide to make it story time. 

"Well, you see, I usually go out on Fridays, right," he nods. You continue. "Well, the place I usually go to is that place downtown, yknow its got that one boarded window because some dumbass wanted to know how hard he could throw his beer bottle. Too bad he got his bottle mixed up with his shoe. Like first of all, how drunk do you have to be to mix up your fuckin shoe with your beer, and how hard do you need to throw it to break a window? Anyways yeah thats. Usually where I head to on Fridays. But see, last week there was a bit of a scuffle? Between me and this dude who couldn't get the word "no" to process through his head all night. So lemme tell you, I gave him what for. But uh. He gave it back," and here you pause, reaching up to fiddle with the frame of your shades. They still don't sit quite as nicely as they used to, and you wonder if he's starting to notice the scratches on the right lens and maybe even the slightest crack in the left one. You suppose it's now for the best that you're sitting to his left where he couldn't see that as well. You glance at him again, and he's frowning. 

"Were you alright?" he asks, and you chuckle. 

"Well, I'm alive aren't I?" you answer with a brow raised, but he doesn't look impressed, so you don't mention how the bruise around your left eye is still kinda yellowish. 

"You should be more careful, Dave. Next thing you know, you're really going to get your ass kicked!" he says, and its almost hesitant in his joking, like he's not sure if he should be saying that. Part of you wonders the same thing, but there's that nagging hope thing that seems keen on noticing that _he would still care._ You also realize that maybe you're selling him a little too short here. Even if it has been years since you last saw him, (you were twenty then, and you're now nearing twenty nine), it couldn't change all that much, right?

But it had, you remind yourself. Things had most definitely changed. 

You think you've been silent a few seconds too long now, so you quickly pick back up with a sarcastic "Okay, mom," even as he raises his hand to get the bartender's attention.

Your heart jolts in it's beating when you think he's going to pick up his tab and leave. So you tell the bartender in a split second decision to give you both another round, on you. John glances at you, and you shift in your seat a little to be facing him a little more with a grin, thankful he at least didn't look too put off by your sudden offer. You just want to talk to him. 

"Oh, you don't have to," he says, and you can tell he's not trying to deny you, but more legitimately saying that you didn't need to pay for his drink. You shake your head a little, waving him off. 

"No, really, my pleasure. It's the least I can do for like. Old time's sake, yknow?" you reassure him, desperately trying to not just outright say 'I want to talk to you really badly don't leave just yet'.

You realize that you're in a bit of a state of 'holy fucking shit' right now. But things should be fine. A few drinks among old friends who incidentally also dated. And you thought you were head over heels for that boy but then life actually kept on going when you guys broke up and it kind of sucked especially at first just as any break up would and you were tempted to call John every time there was a shitty movie on TV but realized after you dialled the first few digits that you couldn't really do that anymore. And now you're sitting beside him buying him drinks. You're kind of short-circuiting here, in the process of rewiring (to keep up with the tech-y metaphors here), to get back into talking with John again.

You had asked John to be your boyfriend in eleventh grade. You were sixteen, almost seventeen, and the transition had been surprisingly easy. Things were nice. You did everything you normally did together, just with extra handholding and smooches and the like. You enjoyed every minute you spent together. Feet pressed together as you sat on opposite ends of the couch in John's living room, listening to your old records in your bedroom, sneaking around on the fire escape to go on impromptu escapades to the park at 1 in the morning, rushing to get coffees at lunch breaks, and getting him to hold your hands when you "accidentally" forgot your mittens. Anything was great. For three years. And then college loomed before you both. You made it five months into your first years, and the decision was made to break it off. You knew it was supposed to be for the best, you totally understood, genuinely cared about what was happening, and wanted things to be okay. Promises were made, goodbyes were said without actually saying the words, but you figured you both kind of felt it. It wasn't bitter. But it certainly wasn't sweet. Things moved on, as things tend to do, and they eventually dragged you with them. You're not sure what he had been doing in this time.

"So is this your usual place?" you venture to ask as you receive your drinks, and he nods.

"Yeah, it's alright here, and they don't put too much ice in the drinks," he answers easily, and you can't help but laugh at the thought that that would be a selling factor for John. He rolls his eyes at you, shaking his head a little. 

"What? It's a dumb thing a bunch of places do and it totally sucks. Excuse me for being picky," he mutters indignantly, and you snort. 

"Yeah, whatever man. I'm glad you found a place to live up to your standards and match those pretty classy lady pearls around your neck," and you give a short laugh, but he gives you a weird look and says, "I'm not wearing pearls, Dave," all matter-of-factly and it's _sarcastic_ and he's still smiling. Another sip. 

"Even so, you still look nice," you offer, gently nudging that out onto the limb of conversation and hoping beyond hope that it's not too heavy. His laugh settles the knots in your stomach a little. 

"Thanks! I'd say the same for you, but.." and here he gestures at your jeans, wrinkling his nose. "Old Navy."

You give an indignant sniffle, but he keeps going. "I didn't even think Old Navy sold skinny jeans. Are they even the ones with like, the stretchy waistband thing going on? Are you wearing mom jeans, Dave?" and he's laughing at his own jokes like a weirdo but it would almost be calming if you didn't still feel nervous. You wonder how he's pulling this off and if he can teach you. 

"I'm not wearing fucking mom jeans, doofus. I'll admit they're comfy as hell, though. And I'll also have you know that they are straight leg, not skinnies. I grew out of that stage of my life man, accept me for who I am. I've changed. The metamorphosis of Dave Strider. Blossoming forth from the old cocoon of too-tight denim. Made my ass look spectacular, though," you ramble idly, and he just sits there and nods along if only to placate you. 

You shut up, shift in your seat, your knee bumps into John's, and here you hesitate. That wasn't supposed to happen. You want to apologize, because wow that was the first time you have touched John Egbert in nine years, but he doesn't even flinch. He just keeps that small grin on his face and continues to sip at his drink. 

"So what have you been doing lately?" he speaks up after a moment, and it nearly startles you. You are certainly reading far too much into every little thing that he's saying and doing, but you don't think you can really help it. You have been so _deprived_ of him in your life, that even though things had continued on normally after you stopped keeping in contact through college, you had missed him. 

"Oh, yknow. I've been around. Working for a museum. Dinosaurs everywhere, all the time. It's pretty cool," you answer, and find yourself swinging your one foot slightly, occasionally bumping into John's stool. He doesn't mention it. "How about you?"

"I've been downtown teaching music. Sometimes the highschools ask me to step in for choir performances and other stuff like that, too. Other occasions around town. A few weddings even. It's been pretty sweet!" and he looks really happy about it, happy about where he's come to in life, and you're sure he's comfortable. His happiness is contagious, so you can't help but feel happy for him. 

And the night goes on like this. You talk aimlessly, or at least that is what you tell yourself. But you're honestly sure what you would be aiming for if you were aiming for anything at all, so you ignore it. And it's awkward. For you, at least. You almost feel like you're shouldering all the awkwardness the conversation has to offer if only because he doesn't seem to be affected by any of it. You're aware that you're thinking far too much into your own words, trying to think of outcomes for any possible thing you could say, like, maybe he'll dump his drink on you if you say that, or maybe if you don't say something fast enough, someone will come from the dance floor and think he's available to pick up and drag him away from you. Or maybe, on the brightside, he'll tell you about what he's been doing over the years. Outside of work. Like, the little things you want to know. Like what he had for breakfast last Tuesday. Which path in the park is his favourite. If he has a pet. Where he gets his coffee. If he still takes cream and sugar. If he still dances to his weird music at even weirder hours. If he's noticed that he couldn't find that one sweater you accidentally forgot you kept. But you don't ask. Conversation flows easily anyways, and it baffles you. To say the least. Which is a habit you take on when you really can't find enough words to accurately describe something. And that is how you feel about John Egbert. He fucking baffles you. 

"So, have you been seeing anyone?" 

It takes you a moment to realize that those words came out of your mouth. He isn't phased by your attempts to cover up how tense you feel. You almost feel ashamed for looking down at his left hand, just in case.

"Oh, well. I guess so! Not right now, though. Since I guess that's why I'm at a bar on a Friday night, huh Dave?" he answers somewhat sarcastically, before he tilts his head a little at you and speaks again. "What about you?"

You almost feel bad for not being sure how to answer. Sure, you've been seeing people, if the amount of one night stands you've had in the last nine years were able to be counted on your two hands (the same hands that tided you over in your times of need more than any passing-through-stragglers at your usual bar had). So you settle on shrugging your shoulders. "I dunno. Same as you, I guess." He hums, a curious glint still in his eyes, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. 

You glance at the time again. 1:19. You look down at your glass, which has been empty for at least half an hour, and you know you walked here, but you wonder how John got here. Did he drive? He's been drinking and he came alone, so you're not really sure. You catch yourself yawning, and he chuckles at you. 

"Am I wearing you out, Dave?" he asks with an eyebrow raised, and you scoff. 

"Nah man, it's just nearly my bed time. I don't think I've stayed out this late at a bar yet. How sad is that."

"Pretty sad." 

You huff, rolling your eyes a little. You refrain from saying that you just don't want to leave without him this time. He just laughs again and looks at the time himself. 

"Well, maybe it _is_ about time to turn in, huh," he ponders, stretching his arms a little, and beckons the bartender over to pay his tab, and you pay your own while he's at it. John stands, and so do you, and you're not sure what the look in his eyes is, but you think it looks like he knows something you don't, and your fingers twitch a little before you smooth out the front of your shirt. 

"Are you catching a cab or something?" you ask, gesturing towards the exit with one hand, and fall into step beside him as he starts heading towards it, and he shrugs as he passes the diminishing crowds of people. 

"I dunno, really. Might walk," he tells you as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as well and you breath in a sigh of relief at the stark differences between the air out here compared to inside. It was cold, you could see your breath, but you shove your hands into your pockets and it's bearable. 

"Yeah, I think I'm on foot for this one, too," you answer quietly, trying to get used to not having to talk in an almost-yell inside over the music to the soft buzzing of the street lamps overhead. "So uh. It was nice seeing you again," you almost end up whispering, but he grins and you know he's heard you, and he nods.

"Yeah."

"So. See you, John."

"Sure, see you."

And with that, he turns with a small wave, and your heart sinks. He's going in the same direction you need to go. You almost can't believe this. But here he is, walking away from you, again, after nearly four hours of talking and you almost can't stand this. He didn't speak enough. Neither of you did. You can't cram nine years into a span of four measly hours. You wanted to know everything. You wanted to know why your knees still feel weird from where they bumped into his periodically, why your fingers twitch again as you reach up to mess with your shades. You could see the scratches better with the yellow light streaming down on you from the street lamp, and it was bothering you. Why you take a few steps to be out from underneath it, and you can still hear his footsteps. The street is deserted, save for a few cars parked here and there, and each on is like a checkpoint that John passes. Why your feet are moving before you can really think about it, which is weird because you've been thinking too much all night. 

He turns, curious, when he hears you approach, and you sheepishly explain that you live in the same direction, and ask if you can accompany him and offer to help him cross the street if he needs a strapping young man's help to do so. He just swats at your shoulder with a grin, and you fall back into step beside him, and you both revert back into silence.

You're left to your thoughts. They are all about John. Something must have built up over the years with the doses of his presence getting smaller and smaller, until he was barely lingering on the edge of your thoughts, and it's been quite a long time. It's been nine years and you certainly weren't counting because you _weren't_ in love with him anymore, you weren't. You had eaten enough ice cream, and sniffled your way through a few nights, gone through the motions of a break up even if it felt weird to do, like it didn't really fit, and your conversations started to dwindle as steadily as your chances, and you let it go. Things moved on, things went back to normal, normal sans John Egbert, and you were _fine._ There was no reason for you to be acting like a stressed out eleventh grader all over again. You had a job, and fiscal responsibility, and payed rent, and still listened to those old records, and sometimes found yourself wearing that sweater by accident, and

"Dave, you think too loud."

You nearly trip, but you cover it up with a cough before looking over at him, and he's grinning at you, amusement clear on his face. 

"What?"

"I said you think too loud! I can practically see smoke coming out of your ears."

You scoff, shaking your head a little as you glance at the street names at the intersection ahead of you. You're just a few streets away from your apartment. You wonder if he wants to ask what you were thinking about, but he doesn't say anything else, so you let it be. It feels like your heart is about ready to beat out of your chest by the time you tell him this is your stop. He looks up at the building, and he hums a little. 

"So, bye for real this time?" 

"Yeah, I think so." 

He nods, and you shuffle your feet. This doesn't feel like how it was supposed to go. Whatever is in the air is almost threatening. John is basically on your doorstep after nine years. You wonder if you've dreamt of this. It feels familiar. So you smile. Because you think whatever you're remembering is happy. You've both said goodbye but neither of you have moved. He's standing right in front of you, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, and he's fidgeting with his hands a little. Breath still streams from your mouths, and he looks so sweetly dishevelled, and it fits so perfectly into your memory, it kind of clicks. Things had changed. Things had moved on. But you need this. You need him, to stand right there, so that you can miss him. That's something you neglected to do over the years, you think. You had missed him objectively, sure. But now it feels different. You feel like you need to say something to fill in the silence. 

"I miss you."

He looks at you a little funny, tilting his head. "But I'm standing right here, Dave."

"Yeah," you answer with a nod. "Weird how that works. We haven't talked for years and it turns out you've been right around the corner. How weird is that? And now you're standing in front of my apartment and the best thing I can think of to tell you is that you look really nice and I really fucking missed you, oh my god. Where have we even been? Two dweebs, trying to make it in the big world. All these years, wow," you pause to laugh, a little breathlessly before you run a hand through your hair nervously. You should stop talking. God, the things he does to you. You reach out for his hands where he's still fiddling with his fingers, and as soon as your fingertips brush over his knuckles, he stops, but doesn't really make to move. He looks like he isn't quite sure what to do with you. All night you've been feeling awkward beyond all hell, and you're kind of jittery with your words. Maybe it was the cold starting to get to you. 

"I miss you, too, you goof," he tells you, and he's still smiling and your heart is beating so fast right now, you might just explode. You shuffle a tad closer, and your one hand is resting on top of his between the two of you, and your other is on his cheek now to tilt his head up and your eyes close and you kiss him. You didn't really even know you wanted to do that. 

But it's short, and you pull away slowly, and you can feel his breath on your lips before you open your eyes to see it. His glasses have already fogged up a little, but you can still see his eyes flutter open to look at you. 

"..I take back my goodbye," he mumbles, before he brings his arms around your torso and pulls you closer to kiss you again. You don't mind. The knots in your stomach loosen.

One hand on his cheek, the other on his shoulder, and you are kissing John Egbert with all you've got after all these years in front of your apartment building on a deserted street at 1:43 in the morning. 

Short, repeated pecks transition to something slower, the sound of your lips is almost an echo of the breaths you both take in between, your head tilting to be as close as possible. You're absolutely craving him. 

"God, I" kiss, "Missed you so much," kiss. John's words. 

You're both trying to kiss and talk and breathe at the same time. 

"Fuck, John, just," kiss, "Where have you _been,"_ kiss. 

"Dave," kiss, "Mnn," kiss. 

This time John is the first to pull away, and you catch yourself leaning forwards after him, obviously hesitant to let him, and he laughs quietly at you. You spend a moment to look at one another through foggy lenses, before you offer to let him stay the night. He accepts.


	2. the barest point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmeh

It's 1:52am when you manage to get John through the lobby of your building and into the elevator, having dawdled a little more outside before the chill was starting to get to you. Your hand is securely held within his, and you're biting at the inside of your cheek while his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist, goosebumps travelling up your arm at the delicate touch. His feet are shuffling a little, and you can't tell if he's nervous like you or impatient like you, but he waits until you press the button for your floor before he carefully reaches out for you, tilting your head to look at him before he brings his lips to yours once again. You want to laugh a little and poke fun for how he can't keep his lips off you at this point, but you'd be a liar if you said you weren't feeling the same. 

It's hard to think about what exactly is bringing this on for both of you. Cravings so easily hidden away for years, and a chance meeting and a little whiskey is all it takes to bring them back out. You promptly cease thinking about it when your back meets the wall of the elevator, and pressure on your chest courtesy of one John Egbert. 

One of your hands is in his hair and the other is on his side, his hands happily on your hips as he presses his chest against yours and kisses your breath away. You reciprocate eagerly, soft breaths turning choppy and quick, taken whenever you can get them whenever your lips part. You can feel his hands smoothing over your sides, his fingers occasionally hitching the hem of your shirt up, and you chuckle against his lips a little before he shuts you up with a small nip. You can't help but groan, your fingers just starting to curl into his hair a little more before the elevator dings at you, signalling your arrival to your floor and that the doors are going to open. 

But your hesitance to get back at John for biting your lip left you kind of in the open, and he opted to take advantage of that and started trailing his kisses towards your jaw and neck, and it's making your knees weak but you manage to get a grip and push your pelvis into his and his grip on you slackens enough for you to gain a little wiggle room. You bring your hand from his hair and take his chin between your thumb and forefinger, bringing him back to look at you. One of his hands skirts up the front of your shirt and over your cheek until his touch is dancing around the edges of your sunglasses, and he studies the crack in the left lens for a moment, but you know you don't have to tell him where it came from because you already did, in admittedly a very roundabout way. The look in his eyes is making your heart skip, and you press an apologetic kiss to his lips before you drop your hand from his chin to take his hand. The doors have closed again since you arrived at the floor, having taken a minute or two too long, but you press the button quickly and they open again, and you lead him down the hallway towards your door. 

You have to let go of his hand when you get there, getting your keys from your pocket and glancing at him waiting as patient as a guy can look after making out in an elevator for like ten minutes, his hair slightly more dishevelled than it had been when you were standing outside, which you note somewhat proudly before going to fiddle with the lock. But you doubt you look any better. 

The door is finally opening and you motion him to follow you inside as you enter, toeing off your shoes and setting them aside and fumble to find the light switch in the darkness. You find it eventually, and give a hum of accomplishment as John snickers behind you. You slip your shades off and set them on the small table in the hall before turning to look at him, and he's still taking his shoes off, kind of leaning against the wall as he brings his foot up as best he can to undo the laces. What a loser. You walk up behind him, arms gently coming to circle his waist to support him, and he lets out a soft sigh before letting you. You lean down a little, pressing your nose to the crook of his neck, and you think this is peculiar because he had the buttons on his shirt done up all the way to his neck before, and now there are certainly some undone that's giving you all this space to work with. You're certainly not complaining. 

You just kind of breathe him in while he works, and soon enough he's turning himself in your hold, resting his hands on your upper arms and grinning at you. You can't help but smile back, your hands resting at the base of his spine while his thumbs rub at your biceps. It feels infinitely different to be holding him like this again. You mean 'again' pretty loosely here, seeing as even though you and John were together for three years, you were still dumb kids and hadn't really slept together outside of actually sleeping in the same bed at sleepovers, a few fumbling handjobs, and frotting against each other like your little hormonal lives depended on it that one time in the back of your car when you were eighteen. Fond memories, although slightly muddled by now, and you're wondering just how you'd want to reform those and keep them a little longer. 

You slowly bring your hands up along his sides, until they're resting on either side of his neck, your thumbs brushing over his pulse, thudding steadily, if not a little fast against his skin. You press a kiss to his nose, then his lips, then his chin, and use your grip to tilt his head back a little and kiss his adams apple. You feel it bob under your lips, and it makes you chuckle against his skin at the sensation, and you're sure its the vibrations of it that makes him gasp like that. His fingers tighten in your shirt, and he whispers your name, and you nod against him before you pull away and lead him once again down the hallway. 

By the time you make it to your room, you've gotten a few more buttons undone on his shirt, and he's tugging at your belt loops, muttering about Old Navy again as he laughs under his breath, pulling you backwards towards the bed. He lets himself fall back onto the mattress and brings you along with him, and it's reminding you about how life had supposedly gone along without him just fine, but it feels better now than it did then. You reach up and carefully take his glasses off, folding them and setting them aside on the bedside table before going back to him, your hands resting on either side of his shoulders and your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his thighs to support yourself over him. He puts his hands on your shoulders and pulls you down to kiss him again, softly at first, but then you can feel him smiling and you're about to pull away to see what he's smiling about before he shifts a little underneath you, and brings his thigh up to press into your crotch, successfully cutting off any inquiries you were going to make with a groan, and you break the kiss to bury your face into his shoulder instead with a whispered curse. 

You can feel his chest moving with his laughter before he tilts his head to nibble at your ear, and you retaliate with bringing a hand into his hair to tilt his head to your advantage, laving your tongue along the column of his neck. You revel in the goosebumps that follow, and the shuddery breath that escapes him fuels you to press your hips down into his to get that friction back. 

He breathes your name out before his hands slip down from your shoulders and down your chest, and his hands promptly slip under your shirt to push it upwards. You arch your back to press down into his touch, continuing to lick and nibble at his neck for a few moments before shifting your weight to your knees to support you, as your hands go to continue undoing buttons. Through some difficulty, you get them, and your shirt is quick to follow to the floor. You help him shimmy out of his pants, and he takes his sweet time messing with your button and zipper before helping you with yours. 

Both of you are now laying in your underwear in your bed, and you think you would be struck with how surreal this feels if you weren't actively feeling over his skin. You're both laying on your sides, just idly.. Touching. Things had slowed down substantially, but you can't say that you mind. Getting the hurried passion out with quick, hungry kisses, and now even though neither of you had many clothes on, it didn't seem.. Like a sexual strip anymore. It was just getting down to your barest point, and giving that back to him as you press your foreheads together. 

His touch moves over your cheeks, dancing along all the freckles you know are spread across them, down over your collarbones, your shoulders, your chest, everything, taking everything back for himself. He kisses you again and you return the favour. 

You don't want to rush now. You needed to take this one slower.

Well, maybe only a little slower, you think to yourself as you slide your hands over his ass, and he bites at his lip and whines into your shoulder. 

The night goes on like this. Moving slowly, your touches soft, breaths softer. Kisses were slow, but laced with desperation just along the edges, only hinted at with the way hips moved and backs arched.

When it all winds down and unravels with nothing more than high-pitched keens and low moans, you find yourselves laying on your sides again, chests pressed together and legs entwined, arms draped loosely around waists, and you're comfortable. You both continue to mumble about missing one another for a few minutes, as if needing to solidify that before anything else. 

And then you just. Talk. 

About all the other little things you had wanted to know about. He still takes his coffee with cream and sugar. You still take yours with just sugar and he sticks his tongue out at you. His favourite path in the park is the one with the old oak tree that has people's names carved in it up to as high as anyone could reach. You still go on any path that isn't full of mud in the early mornings that you find you can't sleep and take pictures until noon. He asks if your favourite time of day is still dusk, and you nod. It turns out he does have a pet, a lizard, and you tell him about the cat that meanders into the lobby on weeknights that you think you've befriended. You talk about his music, and you tell him about the last time you actually got to go to a dig for the museum. You cram as much of nine years as you can until the sun starts peeking through the high-rise buildings outside your window and the light that streams in through the blinds creeps higher up the blankets and over your skin, and when it's getting closer to your elbows, you ask him if you'll still talk about all the time missed when you wake up, and he nods, his eyes already closed. By the time the light reaches your shoulders, you're both asleep.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  comments are always appreciated <3  
> 


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